The Player

I confess I never heard of Pierino da Vinci until I read his biography in Vasari's Lives of the Painters, Sculptors and Architects. Just in case your memory is a little faulty at present or if, like me, you hadn't heard of him, he was the nephew of  Leonardo da Vinci. Per Vasari, Pierino seemed destined to follow in his uncle's footsteps, being blessed with "a most beautiful countenance," "great grace in every movement," and "a quickness of intelligence that was marvelous." He was also a wonderful sculptor whose genius, again according to Vasari, was "admired by all." So, with all those attributes, why isn't he as famous as his uncle? The answer is death. He died "not having yet reached the age of twenty-three." Fortunately for art-lovers, even though he did not reach his maturity, he was industrious and so left behind some completed works.

And now I'm going to use poor Pierino as an excuse to start preaching the obvious. We are all allotted only a few breaths in this life, but we do not know the number. Whether it be a 16th century plague or a 21st century one, whether by accident or nature or whatever, death falls upon us all. Let's hope we don't waste the brief opportunity and squander our limited time, be it as short as Pierino's or as long as Picasso's. We may not be able to produce works like Leonardo or Pierino, but we can create something unique that will make the world a bit more beautiful, or at least a bit more interesting. And that ranting memento mori, trite and obvious as it is, is all I have to say. 

Respite

This is a piece loosely based on an image by Andrea del Castagno. You know his story from Vasari. He hypocritically courted the friendship of his fellow artist (and thus, rival), Domenico Veneziano, with the heinous intention of murdering him; an ambition he achieved one fine day by attacking Domenico from behind on a street corner, beating him to death with pieces of lead and then, undetected, flying back to their shared abode. When a crowd appeared at his door to tell him his friend was discovered dying in the street, Andrea rushed to the scene, and, cradling Domenico in his arms, listened to his victim's pathetic dying lament of "Alas, my brother!" Domenico died never suspecting his friend was his murderer. Per Vasari, no one would have ever known if Andrea had not confessed to the deed on his deathbed. A truly shocking tale of cold-blooded cruelty, is it not? The only thing even more shocking is that the alleged victim outlived his alleged murderer by a good four years. Ah well! I guess that just goes to show you can't believe everything you read, not in Vasari and perhaps not even here.